


still water

by sinequanon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sick Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: Derek and Peter left Beacon Hills years ago. A little piece of home finds them anyway.





	still water

It so rarely rained where they lived that the sound of thunder immediately put him on edge. Though the fact that there was no rain forthcoming also might have had something to do with it.

(After all, they hadn't dealt with a supernatural emergency in years, but the lessons learned in Beacon Hills would stay with them until they died.)

Derek threw the door open, prepared to attack whoever had managed to get inside their wards, only to freeze in alarm at the familiar figure standing in the distance.

Stiles looked...lost, like he wasn't sure how he had gotten there. Derek wanted to say that he looked good, but while the years had treated him kindly, there was something off in the way he stood. Their eyes met from across the distance, and a word that might have been Derek's name passed Stiles’s lips before the human’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“STILES!”

The alpha was running even as the younger man hit the ground with a soft thump that still somehow reverberated throughout his body.

Howling for Peter to hurry home, Derek scooped Stiles up and carried him into house.

_Stiles is not supposed to be here. Stiles should be safe in Beacon Hills._

Derek's brain kept denying the presence of the younger man in his arms, even as he laid him as gently as possible on his bed and stepping back to take a breath. Stiles didn't smell injured, but he didn't smell normal, either, and it made Derek nervous. Stiles definitely didn't look well, and he had no idea how to fix it.

He settled for wrapping the other man in warm blankets and entwining their fingers together.

“Stiles,” the alpha asked hesitantly, brushing the human's hair from his face, “can you hear me?”

Stiles remained limp against the bed, and Derek watched him for another moment before picking up his phone to call Scott, only to be shocked to discover that the number was no longer in service.

What the hell was going on?

<> <>

By the time Peter burst into the house nearly an hour later, Derek had unwrapped, undressed, resettled, and tried to wake their guest again to no avail, and had been reduced to staring forlornly at the figure on the bed.

The older wolf shouted for his nephew as he raced up the stairs, only to stop short at the sight before him. A glance at Derek showed that he, too, was in shock; clutching Stiles's hand as if he might disappear at any moment. The reaction, Peter thought, was entirely understandable: after all, neither of them had seen or spoken to Stiles in nearly fifteen years.

And yet.

“What happened?” Peter asked.

Derek shrugged. “There was a clap of thunder loud enough to shake the house, and then he was outside. I can't get him to wake up.”

“I didn't hear any thunder,” Peter commented, letting himself perch on the end of the bed. “I only heard you.”

<> <>

Stiles tried to focus, but his thoughts kept slipping away before he could fully grasp them. He could hear sounds that reminded him of voices, but he couldn't make them out. He felt too heavy, like he was full of sand--gritty and wet and--where was Lydia? They had been asleep and then she was screaming and there were hands on his face and he had tried to open his eyes and then Derek.

And then black.

Maybe he was floating in the ocean. The sounds could be waves, couldn't they? Up and down, and in and out like tides, pressing him down and pushing him out. The waves were soothing and deep and Stiles felt safe listening to them. They sounded beautiful. If Stiles wasn't so tired, he’d open his eyes so he could see them.

<> <>

The last time Peter had seen Stiles had been when the young man had rescued he and Lydia from Eichen House. The next few days were a blurry mess of Stiles's hands and firm voice, but Peter had been aware enough to know that Stiles hadn't planned to save him--only Lydia--but that Stiles had helped him because “no one deserved to be left there, even you, Peter”. Lydia had been the priority, but Stiles had taken the time to find Derek and make him promise to take care of Peter, no matter how hard both wolves had tried to glare new holes into the human’s head at the request.

The Hales had left town shortly thereafter and never looked back. Things had gotten worse in Beacon Hills before they’d gotten better, but Peter had heard that things had finally settled down, and Scott, Stiles, and Lydia with them.

And yet.

Stiles was here. Older, yet no less captivating than he had been as a teenager, the blush of youth replaced by a certain scruffiness and maturity that was no less attractive.

Peter had thought about the human often over the years, and had hoped that they might meet again, though not like this.

As the hours passed, Stiles went from pale and still to flushed and restless. Even with Derek and Peter both pulling pain, the human writhed against the sheets enough that he almost threw Peter off the bed. Exchanging concerned looks, Peter crawled up on top of Stiles, struggling to grab the younger man’s arms and pin them to his sides. It took far longer than he expected to subdue the human, and he slumped into Stiles the moment the writhing slowed.

“Stiles,” Peter whispered against the other man’s ear. “Sweetheart, you need to wake up and tell us what's wrong.” The younger man stilled and let out a whimper, but didn't open his eyes; Derek took the brief respite to begin washing him down with a cool cloth.

Stiles," Peter tried again, this time more urgently, “open your eyes.”

<> <>

Stiles tries to force his eyes open, but every time his eyelids twitch his head starts swimming and it gets harder to think. He makes an effort to focus on his surroundings, but his brain constantly feels like it's boiling.

He briefly wonders where Lydia is, but the voices that he can hear are too deep to be Lydia, and he gets distracted by the feel of something cool brushing against his neck. He lets himself drift in the brief relief, letting out a low moan.

“Come on, baby, let us see your beautiful eyes.”

Derek?

<> <>

For two days, Derek and Peter watched Stiles swing between chilled and feverish, unnaturally still and increasingly restless. Occasionally, Stiles’s unfocused eyes would flutter open, only to gaze around sightlessly before drifting shut again.

The werewolves took turns laying with Stiles, which seemed to be the only thing that could calm both the human and the wolves when Stiles was seizing. Both of them took comfort in touching Stiles as often as possible: thumbs brushing gently against knuckles, soft kisses to foreheads, careful fingers threading through sweat-slick hair.

“Stiles. You need to wake up soon. Otherwise, I may accidentally kill Derek in a fit of pique, and that won't be good for anyone. You know how hopeless Derek is--he’ll need you to save him from something soon, I'm sure.”

“Ignore Peter--he’s not going to kill me. You and I are the only pack he has left. You’re more likely to need to save him, considering the lengths he goes to for obscure bits of information. You should definitely wake up, though. We miss you.”

<> <>

Stiles is definitely not at home. He’s not sure where he is, but he’s pretty sure he’s safe, even if he doesn't know why he thinks that. He’s exhausted and weak, but he’s comfortably wrapped up in blankets and Peter Hale, and--

 _What_?

He spends the few moments it takes for his brain to reboot staring at the wolf in confusion, because while he doesn't mind being in bed with Peter, the last person he had seen before...this...was Lydia.

If he was here (wherever here was) in a strange place with Peter, that meant that Beacon Hills was gone, and that Lydia had done the spell even though he had told her not to.

So while Lydia was probably safe (likely in London), and he was here, everyone else was gone.

Normally, this thought would send him into a panic attack, but he’s just too tired to care at the moment. He tries surveying the room instead, but the only thing he really cares about is the relaxed look on Peter’s sleeping face that he never thought he would see. It makes him smile.

Things had slowly changed between Stiles and Peter (and Stiles and Derek) over the years in Beacon Hills, but the human had encouraged them to leave shortly after the breakout, and any developing feelings between them had remained unexplored.

Now, though, the werewolf is laying next to him, solid and warm, and Stiles can't help but think that the only thing that could make this better was if Derek were here as well. He kind of wants to poke Peter awake and ask him where Derek is, but his eyes are getting heavy enough that he decides to deal with it after his nap.

<> <>

Stiles comes awake again tucked between two werewolves, one arm slung possessively around his waist, one leg sandwiched between his own, one face in his hair and another pushed into his neck. His breath hitches at the sight of Derek, and he’s torn between waking his bedmates up and enjoying the moment a little longer.

“You should tell Lydia,” Peter’s voice rumbled behind him, “for future notice, that we prefer not to have to nurse our presents back to health.” He pulled Stiles closer to effectively cage the younger man into his arms. Stiles wiggled fruitlessly for a few seconds until he was stopped by a tender hand to the face, and Derek's questioning eyes inches from his own.

“Promise us you’ll stay.”

Even if Stiles had another option now, he knew he wouldn't take it. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the poem "The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry.
> 
> Next week: In case you haven't read it elsewhere, I'm going to be taking September off. I've posted _a lot_ today to tide you over. (There are 12 pieces all together, in case you're worried about missing something). I'll still respond to comments, but it might be a bit slower than usual.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


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